My family wants me to stay at home and save money due to financial difficulties. But I constantly feel restless in this house. I want to live my own life, yet it's hard to go against them. What should I do?
Can silence sometimes be like "a bag you forgot if you took something out of"? You dare not look inside, because you are afraid of disappointment, nor do you completely let it go, because you keep rummaging through it thinking it might be needed one day. So, do you dare to open that bag, or do you prefer to pretend to forget about it?
Can silence sometimes be like "a construction machine digging in the wrong place"? You can't tell it to stop, because the damage is growing, but you can't watch it completely either, because this time it will destroy everything inside. So, is it better to guide it to the right place, or to let it continue digging in the wrong place?
Can silence sometimes be like "a printer that seems to be working but keeps repeating the same cycle"? Neither does it kick in and print something, because you think it's constantly jammed, nor do you unplug it and turn it off completely, as you don't want to leave the problem unresolved. So, do you take time to get that printer repaired, or do you handle the print manually?
Can silence sometimes be like "a teapot forgotten on an empty stove"? You neither pour the tea, hoping it might warm up, nor do you light the stove because you don't want to bother with it. So, do you leave the teapot there and wait for it to cool down, or do you make an effort to flame the stove for a moment to get things done?
Can silence sometimes be like a "stone that has fallen into rice"? You can neither completely sift it out, as you can't finish because another stone may come out, nor can you continue as if it doesn't matter, because it could damage your teeth. So, do you choose to patiently sift through it all and choose cleanliness, or do you learn to live with the fact that it is rocky?
Can silence sometimes feel like "a phone that seems to be still on but has run out of battery"? You can't fully put it away, thinking it's off, because there are remnants of light on the screen, nor can you use it, as everything you touch goes unanswered. So, do you try to recharge that phone, or do you set it aside, saying it no longer works?
Can silence sometimes resemble "the seals of a window that has been closed for a long time"? You can neither open the window to let fresh air in because it is stuck to the frame, nor can you completely close it and forget about it, as air seeps in between. So, do you try to force that window open and refresh, or do you choose to renew the seal and close it tightly?
Can silence sometimes be like "a nail hole left to rot in the wall"? You struggle to fix the wall because you procrastinate, knowing there’s another spot to dig, nor do you just leave it as it is because it continues to catch your eye. So, is it time to repaint that wall from scratch, or do you cover it up with a frame and pretend it’s not there?
Can silence sometimes be like "a vacuum bag that shrinks more as it closes"? You don't fully tighten it, because after a while it gets crushed and changes shape, nor do you open it immediately, because you're afraid the contents will spill out. So, do you choose to carefully open that bag and organize its contents, or do you turn a blind eye and let it continue to shrink?
Can silence sometimes be like "a musical instrument left to gather dust in its corner"? You hesitate to play it because the sound has rusted; yet, you don't fully discard it, waiting for a day it might be needed. So, do you try to repair that instrument and take it in hand, or do you allow it to be forgotten in its corner?
Can silence sometimes be like "a stove accidentally left on"? You neither completely turn it off because you don’t notice any smoke coming from it, nor do you try to cook anything because you know there’s nothing in it. So do you check that stove and make sure it actually does something, or do you just wait for something to happen on its own?
Can silence sometimes be like "a door with a loose hinge"? You neither completely take it apart and replace it, thinking it might be useful, nor do you leave it as it is, because it continues to creak with every opening. So, do you tighten that hinge to make the door operate quietly, or do you wait for it to completely fall one day?
Can silence sometimes be like "an old clock whose function has been forgotten"? You neither try to fix it, because you're already keeping track of time elsewhere, nor do you throw it away, because it has some meaning. So, do you install a new mechanism to make it work again, or are you content with it just being a decoration?
Can silence sometimes be like "an empty bookshelf"? You neither fill it with new books, because they don't interest you as much, nor leave it empty, as it creates a sense of something missing on the wall. So, do you try to rediscover and place the stories that belong on that bookshelf, or do you just see it as decor?
Can silence sometimes be like "a faucet that drips lightly"? You delay getting it fixed because it’s a hassle, and you don't completely turn it off because you’ve gotten used to the sound of the dripping. So do you continue to ignore the sound of that dripping faucet, or do you consult a professional and choose silence?
Can silence sometimes be like "a bucket with a hole in it that you don't know about"? You neither stop filling it with water, because at some point you tell yourself you'll still use it, nor do you try to patch the hole, because you can't exactly find out where it is. So, will you choose to keep pouring water into that bucket, or do you consider completely replacing it?
Can silence sometimes be like "a candle slowly melting on its own"? You hesitate to light a new one, thinking the old one still has some light, yet you also don't want to let it go completely and remain in the dark, because it is illuminating at least a little. So do you melt that candle and shape it into a new light, or do you wait for it to go out completely?
Can silence sometimes be like "a refrigerator that makes you feel like everything inside has disappeared"? You don’t unplug it because there’s nothing that feels like it’s not working, nor do you open the door because you assume everything inside is still fresh. So, do you consider replacing that fridge thinking it’s a faulty cooler, or do you open the door and realize that everything is actually in place?
Can silence sometimes be like "a scratched record that still keeps turning"? Neither do you change the needle, because the music hasn’t completely broken down, nor do you stop playing, because that scratch now feels like part of the song. So do you keep getting stuck in the same place on that record, or do you choose to move on to another song?
Can silence sometimes be like "the soil of a pot that has started to dry out"? You neither uproot the plant and throw it away, because you still hope that the roots are alive, nor do you completely change the soil, because you don't want to disrupt the old arrangement. So, do you continue to water that soil bit by bit, or do you dare to renew it with a completely fresh mix?
Can silence sometimes be like "a pot of rice that’s been slightly burned"? You neither scrape the bottom clean, because the taste can still be salvaged, nor do you dump it all out, because you’ve put in the effort. So, do you prefer to slowly eat the top, or do you try to ignore the burnt part and digest the whole rice?
Can silence sometimes feel like "a letter written long ago but never sent"? You hesitate to open it because you fear it might remind you of the emotional weight you felt when writing it, yet you also can’t bring yourself to tear it up, thinking it might be needed one day. So, do you continue to quietly store that letter away in a drawer, or do you try to send it to its owner when the right moment comes?
Can silence sometimes be like "a broken but still ticking clock"? You neither get it repaired, because you’re used to it showing the right time occasionally, nor do you throw it away completely, because you think it might still be useful. So would you choose to accept that clock as it is and live with it without trying to make it like it used to be, or do you find a new way to show the right time?
Can silence sometimes be like "a light bulb that's half broken but still gives off a bit of light"? You neither change it completely, since that little brightness still does its job, nor do you leave it in darkness and remove it, because that light you've become accustomed to has already dazzled you. So, do you settle for that flickering light, or do you get used to complete darkness and replace it with a new one?
Can silence sometimes be like "a cave where the water inside begins to evaporate but still smells damp"? What do you draw from that, since you don’t know what you’ll encounter outside, nor do you want to stay inside because that smell bothers you. So, do you try to find a way to clear that air, or do you prefer to just accept the smell and stay in that cave?
Can silence sometimes be like "a soup that's settled at the bottom but still bubbling at the top"? You’re afraid to stir it, because you worry it will get messier, nor do you take it off the stove, since the top still looks edible. So, do you keep eating from the top and leave the bottom, or do you dare to start from scratch?
Can silence sometimes be like "a vessel with slight cracks on the surface but still full inside"? You try neither to seal the cracks, thinking the taste of the water doesn’t change, nor to empty the water completely and replace it, because you can’t bear to throw the vessel away. So, do you try to use that water sparingly, or do you prepare a new one before the vessel is completely empty?
Can silence sometimes be like "a faded fabric but still strong in texture"? It neither works a new pattern, because it's filled with old memories, nor do you completely throw it away, because it's sturdy. So, do you choose to keep that fabric as it is, or do you cut away the faded part and create something new from what remains?
Can silence sometimes be like "a cracked but unbroken window"? You neither replace the glass completely, because you can still look outside, nor do you just leave it as it is, because it seems like it will crack a little more with every gust of wind. So, do you use the glass sparingly to see that view, or do you wait for it to break and fall in?
Can silence sometimes be like "a candle with one end burnt out but the other still glowing"? You neither extinguish it completely, because the remaining light seems sufficient, nor do you switch to a new candle, knowing that flame is gradually shrinking. So, do you keep watching that last spark, or do you go searching for another light?
Can silence sometimes be like "the creaking of a door hinge"? You don't oil it, because you’ve gotten used to the presence of that sound, nor do you tear the door out, because it still opens and closes. So do you continue living trying not to hear that sound, or do you change the door hinge when the time comes?
Can silence sometimes be like "an empty book"? You neither begin to rewrite it, tempted by the allure of completely blank pages, nor do you leave it as it is, because that emptiness makes you contemplate. So, where do you start writing that book, or do you just close the back cover?
Can silence sometimes be like "a box that is closed but still playing music inside"? You neither open the lid because you're afraid the song will get ruined, nor do you silence it completely because knowing it keeps playing inside is comforting. So, do you dream of opening that box one day, or do you wait for the music to gradually stop on its own?
Can silence sometimes be "like a painting hanging on the wall but forgetting the wind in its sails"? You neither lift it, because it occupies the most beautiful spot in the room, nor do you wait for an imaginary wind to fill its sails, because do the sails of a painting crave real wind? So, do you continue to gaze at that painting, or one day do you take it down and hang a mirror in its place?
Can silence sometimes be like "a key forgotten at the bottom of a chest, but still in good condition"? You neither search for the lock to which it belongs, because you've long forgotten which door it opens, nor do you throw it away, because it might come in handy one day. So, do you take that key in your hand and start to think about which door it belongs to, or do you wish to leave it inside the chest and that door never existed?
Can silence sometimes be like "a jar that is hollowed out but still holds onto its scent"? You neither completely throw it away, because that smell ties you to a place in the past, nor do you fill it up, because the dissonance between the old and the new disturbs you. So, do you watch that scent fade away over time, or do you take one last whiff before putting the jar on the shelf for good?
Can silence sometimes be like "seaweed caught on the edge of a sandal"? You can't clean it, because it feels like a part of the sea, nor can you leave it, because you know it's weighing you down. So, do you wait for that sandal to sink, or do you eventually sit down and start cleaning off the seaweed one by one?
Can silence sometimes be like "a cassette that has been played and forgotten in a drawer"? You neither play it, fearing it might damage the cassette player, nor throw it away, because you want those songs to still play somewhere in your life. So, do you open that drawer and rewind the tape, or do you act as if you’ve never heard the music at all?
Could silence sometimes be like "a clock on the wall"? You neither stop it, because it needs to show the time, nor do you remove it, because you’ve grown used to its tick-tock. So, when that clock stops one day, will you notice it, or will you find another way to know the time even in the absence of its sound?
Can silence sometimes be like "the missing piece in a scattered puzzle"? You struggle to find it because maybe the picture you want won't emerge once it's complete, nor do you give up, because that lack continues to bother you. So, even if you find that piece, do you choose to finish the puzzle, or do you pretend like you've forgotten about the piece set aside?
Can silence sometimes be like "a dried flower forgotten between the pages of a book, but not remembering which pages it marked"? You can't throw away the flower because you feel a connection to the story of the book, nor can you reopen the book because you fear that the moment you find the flower, the meaning of those pages will inherently fade away. So, do you think about rereading that book one day, or do you choose to complete the story of the flower in your own mind?
Can silence sometimes be like "a thermos that has fallen but whose lid is still tightly sealed"? You hesitate to open it, because if there's something spoiled inside, you fear the smell, and yet you can't just leave it in a corner, because maybe it still has its use. So, will you choose to open that thermos and see what's inside, or will you continue to carry it like a secret kept under a closed lid?
Can silence sometimes be like "a flower pot forgotten on the balcony but rooted in its corner"? You neither keep watering it, because maybe there’s still a hope inside, nor do you throw it away, because its roots have already taken hold. So, do you try to grow something new in that pot, or do you wait for the roots to dry out on their own?
Can silence sometimes be like "the key to an old lock that hasn't been turned in years"? You hesitate to turn it, fearing it might be rusty, and you don't want to throw that key away, because you might need to unlock a door one day. So, do you want to try using that key to see if the lock works, or would you prefer to keep the past locked away behind that door?
Can silence sometimes be like "a radio that has stopped working"? You neither try to fix it, fearing that the frequency inside it will never be caught again, nor do you throw it away, because you remember that fleeting melody you heard in the past. So, do you try to turn that radio back on, or do you let the melody resonate only in your mind?
Can silence sometimes feel like "a ballpoint pen forgotten in a drawer but never refilled"? You neither refill it, because perhaps there is nothing left to write, nor do you throw it away, as it bears the weight of the old notes written on it. So, do you seek new ink for that pen, or do you prefer to leave the writing inside quietly?
Can silence sometimes be like "a letter that hasn't reached anyone for years"? What do you send, because the recipient might have changed their address long ago, and what do you keep, as the weight of who it was written for hasn't been forgotten? So, do you dare to send that letter, or do you choose to carry it in your pocket as a memory without an address?
Can silence sometimes be like "a glass plate that has fallen and cracked in the corner but is still used"? You can't throw it away because it still serves its purpose, yet you can't ignore the crack, because it's a reminder of the past. So, while you continue to use that plate, do you fear that the crack will eventually grow and break, or are you okay with it continuing to serve until it shatters?
Can silence sometimes be like "a wall clock hanging in a historic corner but no longer ticking"? You neither have it repaired, as it feels like a part of your decor, nor do you take it down, because every time you look at it, it reminds you of an old time. So, do you try to get that clock working again, or do you allow it to remain an ornament that does not count the past?
Can silence sometimes be like "a sponge that can be used on both sides but one side is now worn out"? You can’t throw away the worn side because the other side still cleans, nor can you completely stop using it because you know it has a purpose. So, would you risk using that sponge more and wearing it out, or would you leave the old one behind and get a new one?
Can silence sometimes be like "a jar of jam hidden away, hoping to return one day, but long since spoiled"? You can neither open it, as its scent might remind you of rotten memories, nor throw it away, as the dust on the lid has gathered the past, holding you there. So, do you try to clean that jar and fill it with something new, or do you choose to leave it on the shelf to avoid breaking it and forget about it?
Can silence sometimes be like "a candle that has burned halfway"? You neither use the remaining part completely because the light feels like a small hassle now, nor do you throw it away, because the traces of the melted part connect you to a story. So, do you choose to melt that candle completely and pour it into a new mold, or do you prefer to leave it as it is and remember its past light?
Can silence sometimes be like "a dew drop slowly and steadily drawn into the earth"? You cannot prevent it, for it is in its nature to melt away and disappear, nor can you remain indifferent to its complete disappearance, for it shines as a memory of a morning. So, do you wait, hoping to find that dew again on another morning, or do you learn to see its trace within the soil?
Can silence sometimes feel like "a sturdy but fraying old carpet"? You can neither sew up the frays, because it won't return to its original state after being worn out, nor can you lift it, because you want to walk on it and feel the warmth that comes from the past. So, do you continue to use that carpet with patches, or do you prefer to seek another ground?
Can silence sometimes be like "a piece of tile that has fallen to the ground with the wind but hasn't reached the roof"? What do you replace it with, since it no longer belongs to the whole as it once did, nor can you completely forget it, because it used to cover the house? So, do you watch that tile break on the road and continue with a new one, or do you gather the broken pieces and find another use for them?
Can silence sometimes be like "a vacuum cleaner that’s cornered but still plugged in, hesitating to be unplugged?" You neither unplug it, thinking it might be needed one day, nor do you turn it on, as the dust has piled up, but you don’t want to deal with it. So, do you choose to turn on the vacuum and start cleaning, or do you collect the dust a little longer and come up with another excuse?
Can silence sometimes be like "a DVD of a movie you bought to watch but never do"? You don’t play it because you can’t find the right time to watch it, and you don’t throw it away because you think maybe one day you’ll get around to it. So, do you watch that movie as soon as possible and put it on the shelf, or do you prefer the imaginary story on the cover and leave it where it is?
Can silence sometimes be like "dried but not fully ironed clothes"? You neither lift them, because they haven't been entirely straightened out, nor do you iron them, because they serve a purpose in that state. So, do you choose to leave those clothes a little more open and accept the wrinkles, or do you soak them all again?
Can silence sometimes be like "a jar that has been forgotten in the cupboard for a long time, with its lid stuck"? You neither open it, because your hands hurt when you try to, nor do you leave it alone, because you wonder what's inside. So, do you force that jar open with a tool, or do you choose to accept that there's only stale air inside and let it go?
Can silence sometimes feel like "a radio station that hasn't quite tuned in"? You can't get a clear signal because the static distracts you from hearing the melody, and you can't just turn it off because searching for another channel seems like more hassle. So, do you strive to lock in that frequency, or do you choose to get used to the static?
Can silence sometimes be like "a sponge left half full and forgotten in the corner"? You can't use it because it's dried out and hardened, and you can't throw it away because you still hope it can serve a purpose. So, do you try to rehydrate that sponge and make it useful again, or do you just get a new one that fits neatly in the corner?
Can silence sometimes be like "a book that has turned yellowed and worn because it was loved so much"? You neither completely let it go and forget it, as what it contains has contributed so much to you, nor do you start reading it again, because there are some pages you no longer want to understand. So, do you continue to keep that book by your bedside, or do you put it away in a corner where it will be less worn?
Can silence sometimes feel like "a broken old alarm clock that you've forgotten how to set"? You neither set it up, because you no longer trust it, nor do you repair it, because it’s easier to just buy a new one. So, will you try to set that alarm clock again, or have you already given up on your sleep routine?
Can silence sometimes be like "laundry left forgotten in the machine that smells of detergent"? You can't wash it again because the water cost is a concern, nor can you wear it as it is because it doesn’t feel completely clean. So, do you give it another shot and run a short cycle, or do you wait a bit longer for it to get even more musty?
Can silence sometimes be like "a poorly made knitting pattern"? You can't rip it out and start over because effort has been put in, yet you can't just carry on either, because the mistake always catches your eye. So, do you try to ignore that flaw and complete it, or do you take the risk of wasting time and re-wind the yarn?
Silence can sometimes feel like "an old walkman you've taken the batteries out of and set aside." You neither rewind the tape because it doesn't play, nor do you just throw it away because you still find what's inside worth listening to. So, will you put in some effort to find a new battery, or will you just let someone else dance to a broken song?
Can silence sometimes feel like "a knot tightly tied in time but cut with scissors when it can’t be unraveled"? You’re afraid to consider retying it, because the length of the string may not be enough, nor do you throw it away completely because you remember the days it served a purpose. So, will you keep that string for another knot, or will you choose to rid yourself of the burden of collecting pieces that no longer serve a purpose?
Can silence sometimes be like "a clock that has been hanging on the wall for forty years but no one even checks the time on anymore"? It neither gets its batteries changed, because it has been left as a decoration, nor is it taken down, because its place has been forgotten over time. So, would you force that clock to work, or would you think that it's harmless for it to quietly hang on the wall?
Could silence sometimes be like "a meal frozen in the freezer but with the date written on it erased"? You can't solve it and eat it, because the possibility of it being spoiled is frightening, nor can you throw it away, because it feels like waste. So, will you dare to thaw that meal, or will you choose to forget it there for a hungrier day in the future?
Can silence sometimes be like "a flowerpot that you keep watering in hopes of blooming towards spring, but never does?" You throw nothing away because you still believe it will come to life one day, and you don't move it because you think its roots have gotten used to that spot. So, would you attempt to change the soil of that flower, or do you think that patiently waiting is the right decision?
Can silence sometimes be like "a radio you know has been left for repair but has never been picked up"? You neither want to go ask because it feels like a bother to remind someone of a forgotten debt, nor can you think about getting a new radio because the sound of the old one still echoes in your ears. So, would you dare to remind about that radio, or do you choose to get used to the absence of its sound?
Can silence sometimes feel like "the missing piece of a puzzle"? Neither do you search the box again, because it's hard to accept that it's lost, nor do you consider it complete in its incomplete state, because the picture isn't finished. So, is it possible to draw a new story without that missing piece, or do you learn to ignore the emptiness in the incomplete picture?
Can silence sometimes feel like "a sewing machine you've forgotten how to use"? You neither plug it in to get it running because you can't even remember how to thread the needle, nor do you get rid of it because you think you might need it one day. So, do you try touching that dusty machine again, or does it feel easier to just stitch the buttons with your own hands?
Can silence sometimes be like "an old message from a phone"? You don’t delete it, because those words once mattered; you don’t read it again, because it doesn’t affect you the same way anymore. So, do you let that message still sit in your pocket, or does clearing your memory feel lighter?
Can silence sometimes be like "a key hidden in a room, but one that everyone memorizes the location of by peering beneath it"? You don't open the door because you don't want to know what you’ll find when you do, nor do you lose that key because its existence feels like a kind of security. So, do you choose to forget that key, or do you finally muster the courage to turn the lock and see what's there?
Can silence sometimes feel like "a view seen from the window but never opened"? You can leave neither behind the curtain, as that image provides a familiar comfort, nor can you open the window to breathe it in, because you know the air will be a bit too cold. So, do you dare to truly feel that view, or does it feel safer for it to remain behind the glass?
Can silence sometimes be like "an old clock forgotten in a drawer, but out of battery"? You neither wind it up, as it reminds you that time has passed, nor throw it away, as it carries the traces of an era. So, would you try to put a new battery in that clock, or would you leave it as a memory in its stopped state?
Can silence sometimes be like "a notebook with the cover still open but you forgot to fill it in"? You start to write because you can't find a suitable continuation for the last sentence you wrote, yet you also can't close it because leaving it unfinished gives a sense of incompleteness. So, do you choose to keep that notebook open longer, or do you try to ignore the emptiness and open a new page?
Could silence sometimes be like "an instrument that you don’t play but whose tuning has gone awry"? You neither pull its strings to fix it, because you can't predict what sound will come out, nor do you completely set it aside, because a part of it can still carry a beautiful melody. So, do you strive to find that sound again, or do you preserve your silence, fearing a wrong note?
Can silence sometimes be like "a shopping list you forgot to take to the market"? You can fill in the missing items, but you can't remember which ones you forgot to write down, nor can you shop at will because you've planned based on trusting the list. So, do you try rewriting that list, or do you settle for what's been forgotten and create a new dish with what you have?
Can silence sometimes be like "an old chest in the attic of a house"? You neither open it and sort through the contents, because broken memories emerge, nor do you completely forget it, because it’s a part of that house. So, is it better to open that chest, or to wait for the dust to settle by itself?
Can silence sometimes be like "a calendar hanging on the wall but stopped"? You don't hang a new one because you know the days have long passed, nor do you take it down because even in its old state, it bears the marks of a certain time. So, do you choose to add a new page to that calendar, or do you just leave it there without turning the old pages?
Can silence sometimes be like "a riddle you solve quickly but never truly fit together"? What do you replace it with, since just solving it seems enough, and you can't completely abandon it because leaving it incomplete is unsettling? So, is it necessary to place the pieces of that riddle in their proper spots, or was knowing the solution the main issue all along?
Can silence sometimes feel like "a strainer forgotten in the corner of the bathroom but never moved"? You neither take it and use it for something else, as you have unconsciously adopted its place, nor do you fully remove it, thinking that it might be needed one day. So, is it easier to leave that strainer there, or to question its position and see if it really serves a purpose?
Can silence sometimes be like "an object misplaced but untouched because it doesn't bother anyone"? You neither put it back in its original place, as its current location feels functional, nor do you completely remove it, as doing so may create a void when it is displaced. So, should we avoid disturbing the silence of that object, or should we move it to understand where it belongs?
Can silence sometimes be like "a vacuum cleaner that hasn’t been turned on but is plugged in?" You don’t operate it because you think it will make noise and be bothersome, yet you also don’t completely unplug it because you want it to be ready when you need it. So, is it less exhausting to leave the vacuum cleaner off, or to tolerate that noise for a while and get the cleaning done?
Can silence sometimes be like "a mothball-scented blanket forgotten in a hope chest, never opened"? You hesitate to take it out and spread it out, fearing you’ll find its pattern faded, yet you don’t fully discard it, holding onto it just in case you might need it one day. So, which is harder: taking that blanket out of the chest, or leaving it there without appreciating its value?
Can silence sometimes be like "a room with an open window but closed curtains"? You don't open the curtains completely to let the air in because you're afraid of dust coming inside, nor do you close the window because a little breeze is nice. So, should you part the curtains to cleanse the air of that room, or should you leave it as it is and settle for a little breeze?
Can silence sometimes be like "the ticking of an old clock"? You neither stop the clock completely, because that little sound accompanies the silence of the house, nor do you fully reset it, as you continue to hear it out of habit. But is it better to listen to the rhythm of the ticking, or to stop time and reset it?
Can silence sometimes be "like a sock stuffed under a table and forgotten there for years"? What will you take out and throw away, because you've gotten so used to it that its absence feels strange, nor will you leave it there, because just knowing it's there is bothersome. So, is it harder to lift that sock out, or to turn a blind eye to its existence?
Could silence sometimes be like "a jacket with an old button that hasn't been sewn on"? You don’t take it to the tailor, thinking it’s out of fashion, nor do you completely throw it away, because it holds memories. So, should you sew on the button to wear that jacket, or should you close your wardrobe like you open it, filled with memories?
Can silence sometimes be like "a broken bulb in a chandelier"? You can change it with a new one, because the other lights are still on, or you can completely remove it, because you don't want the spot to be empty. So, would changing that bulb make it brighter, or is it better to rely on the other lights and just leave it be?
Can silence sometimes be like "dust accumulated on a glass surface"? You don't wipe it away, because you know it'll just get dusty again right away, nor do you leave it be, because it blocks the light. So, is it easier to ignore that dust, or to clean it up every now and then to see the light clearly?
Can silence sometimes be like "a cracked but still leak-proof glass"? You neither throw the glass away because it can still be used to drink water, nor do you ignore the crack because you know it could suddenly break one day. So, is it more right to keep drinking from that glass, or to start anew with a new glass?
Can silence sometimes be like "an acorn that falls from a tree and gets buried in the ground"? What can you take out, because it has now become part of the earth, and what can you completely forget, because the possibility of sprouting is always there? So, is it more hopeful to wait for that acorn to sprout, or to turn a blind eye to its staying in the ground?
Can silence sometimes feel like "an empty frame"? You neither put something inside it because you can't find a suitable photo, nor do you throw it away because you dream of filling it one day. So, does leaving that frame empty feel more liberating, or does coming up with a photo to place in it?
Can silence sometimes be like "a small tear in the zipper of a suitcase"? You don't want to bother fixing that tear, because the suitcase still serves its purpose, nor do you want to simply toss it in the trash, because you know you could scatter all your belongings on a journey. So, is it wiser to ignore that tear and just manage it, or to change the suitcase from the start?
Can silence sometimes be like "dough that has forgotten to rise"? You don't throw it away, because you've put in effort, nor do you bake it, because it hasn't risen. So, is it better to add yeast to that dough again, or to knead a fresh batch of dough from scratch?
Can silence sometimes be like "a rug with a hardened texture"? You don't wash it because you're afraid it will wear out, nor do you leave it spread out because it starts to hurt your feet. So, if you shake that rug, will it get better, or do you have to try to get used to a new one?
Can silence sometimes be like "an old chest tucked away in the attic"? You neither open it and rummage through it, because you don’t have time to deal with what’s inside, nor do you completely forget about it, because occasionally it reminds you of its existence. So, does opening that chest require more courage, or is it learning to live with it by leaving it there?
